


Just This Once

by astralZenith



Category: Magic: The Gathering (Card Game)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralZenith/pseuds/astralZenith
Summary: A group of monsters is released from their binds to celebrate their victory over Dominaria.A man emerges, numb to it all. But not for very long.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Just This Once

**Author's Note:**

> this was just supposed to be Mishra angst and it turned into a fix it for the end of Apocalypse what is my life why am I like this

The pain stopped not long after Urza abandoned him.

It was so very odd, after all those years of being ground against the spinning blades and gears of the seventh sphere, encompassed in pain he knew he deserved but was still too human to take. It was so odd to have it stop, for the gears to stop grinding and the blades to stop spinning and to feel his flesh (was it still flesh anymore?) mend back together with careful ease. It had happened before, of course. Every time he'd become too broken to take anymore abuse, but this time there was.......nothing. The straps came loose, his arms went free.

And so did everyone else's.

The deafening chorus of desperate creatures brought his hands up to cover his deaf ears, as thousands upon thousands of miserable wretches who were subjected to the same treatment were suddenly granted their blissful freedom. Every kind of demon and beast this place could produce who had in one way or another failed the Ineffable and been sent down here, and now their claws and hooks scrambled upwards with their joy, called by an unknown force to join their brethren in the final charge. They could all feel it, the reason for their freedom-

Yawgmoth was gone. He'd taken Dominaria. They'd won.

All around were cries of jubilation. Mishra only felt numb.

Human eyes, dull and brown, watched as manifold phyrexians made their way up, to holes in the surface of the sphere that had not been there before, too careless and blunt to have been intentional. Now that he paid attention, every so often a great tremor would be felt throughout the plane, like a bomb set off deep within the core, or up above on the first sphere. Perhaps that was the plan. There was no need for this place anymore, as much Yawgmoth's prison as it had been theirs. Perhaps he was destroying it now, and new torments would await once they made their way to the conquered Dominaria. His old home.

Mishra felt himself shudder. No, he would not join them. Not that he had much choice, his feeble human arms were nothing like the compleat ones that could climb their way upwards with ease. He'd never make it in time, and didn't really want to.

Instead, he trudged his way through the abandoned instruments of their suffering, the memory of his brother's final betrayal playing like a loop in his mind. It was all he could think about anymore.

He could feel impossible bile rise through his throat (was it still a throat?) as he felt the words their god had shoved into his throat repeat themselves in his mind. "Help me, brother! Save me! Take me from this place, let me die in peace." It was _disgusting_. He'd sooner have told Urza to go to hell, go further than hell and never look back for what he'd done, for having the _audacity_ to come here and look down on him with the stones that were rightfully _his_ jammed into his eye sockets. And Yawgmoth knew that. So, he'd been forced to comply. To beg for mercy that he already knew would not be given. If it had, he would have attacked the bastard the moment they'd landed on whatever field of grass he'd expected him to die happy in. Pathetic.

And yet......he still felt betrayed, somehow. Why _didn't_ Urza try to save him? He hated Urza, always had, but- there'd always been some part of his mind deluded enough to think the feeling _might_ not have been mutual. Why else had his brother been so adamant to destroy Phyrexia before then? But now that delusion had been so easily shattered, and he felt a numbness he didn't know was possible for him anymore. It should have been a relief, after so many centuries of pain.

It wasn't.

Looking down, a hole identical to the ones formed above that his comrades now skittered their way through in increasingly fewer numbers appeared before him. It was large, and formed a channel that seemed deep enough to reach the most sacred of chambers. The Ninth Sphere. Yawgmoth's sphere. Breaching it was a crime punishable by something worse than death.

But it had been abandoned. The god was gone, now enjoying the fruits of victory over the place he used to call home. Would he even recognize it anymore, if he went? No, he didn't think he would. Not after so long.

Eyes drifting down again, he felt a wave of resignation wash over him. He'd already endured so much, so what was one more strike against his heart?

He began the descent, surrounded only in darkness and heat and the dreadful weight of his own failures to keep him company.

After he accumulated enough cuts and scrapes on the exposed wires and metal to have killed anything that was more human than he was, he found himself in the abandoned throne room of their absent god. There......wasn't much to see. Just a room, not too big, but could probably seem bigger to those brought down through the will of the god that ruled it. He wasn't sure what he expected to find down there, as it was absent of any personal effects, trophies, things that would indicate anything about the Ineffable that they didn't already know to fear. He certainly didn't expect the only of thing of interest to be his brother's headless corpse.

At first, he wasn't even sure it was really him. Without that pompous head of blonde hair and dull expression to mark it as the cheating bastard, it really could have been anyone. But after that visit just hours (was it hours? or days?) beforehand, the ugly robes and abandoned staff were a dead giveaway. It was Urza. Headless. Dead. Abandoned, just like him.

Mishra felt he should probably be happy about this, to find some catharsis in knowing he got what he deserved. But did he really? This looked like a quick death. More mercy than Mishra had ever known. It wasn't fair that Urza didn't have to suffer the way he had, to feel alone and abandoned. No, his brother got to know blissful, immediate peace, and Mishra was left more numb than he'd been before. It just wasn't _fair._

Staring down at himself now he realized whatever scraps of clothing he had been gifted with had shredded themselves on the descent, and he also realized that there was really no reason for him to care. It's not like anyone could see him down here. But then again, _he_ cared. And he really only had himself, now.

Adding 'robbing a corpse' to his ever growing list of sins, he donned robes that were too tight on his shoulders and trousers that were too long for his legs, leaving Urza's headless body looking more pathetic than it had before. He couldn't even give it a proper burial. Not that he wanted to, of course. But the lack of option still stung for reasons that eluded him.

Beside him lay a staff that was more complicated than the one Urza had wielded into battle the day he'd been deemed a failure. It looked dangerous, complex, beautiful in its design and deadly in its purpose. Discarded, just like the rest of them. Mishra picked it up with numb, bloody hands, completing a transformation he'd been so loathe to ever allow. He stood in the ninth sphere, a dark, broken shadow of his older brother, and he couldn't even bring himself to hate it anymore.

Another rumble resounded from above, shaking the very core of the plane and sending more debris down around him, yet none of it hit. One of life's tiny mercies, he presumed. With little grace, he plopped himself down next to the corpse he used to call Urza, and allowed himself the chance to think. A dangerous thing, but it wasn't like he had anything else to do while he waited for the end.

Of all the stupid things to wish for, he found himself wishing the body next to him still had its head. At least that way he'd have a face to look at, something human to remind him of his hatred. Something to contrast to the Urza of his memories, the spoiled prince with the pretty wife and the school and the students who adored him. The quiet teen who spent more time in the tent at camp than out with the diggers, laughing and sharing stories. The boy who hadn't hesitated to throw himself tooth and nail at another kid for threatening his little brother their first day in the desert.

Mishra felt his cheeks grow warm and wet, and assumed it was just more blood. Had that really been so long ago, when they'd arrived at Tocasia's camp? When their father died? When Urza, in spite of himself, climbed that cliff and spent a quiet night comforting him under the stars? Had that really been Urza, the man who'd spent the better part of his life trying to kill him?

.......But it hadn't been most of his life. Urza had spent thousands of years in perpetual godhood after their war, having chosen a new target for his hatred. Phyrexia. Even in the pit, Mishra had known what his intention was each time his brother had breached their walls. But now, in the darkness of the furthest sphere, he couldn't for the life of him figure out _why_. The Urza that saw his face hit the grinders was devoted entirely to Yawgmoth, but the one that had started the invasion had come with intent to kill. Why?

The first was obvious, he supposed. Of course Urza fell in love with Phyrexia after a moment of peace within it, who wouldn't? It was a sin Mishra himself could add to his list, his very first. It would have been nothing for Yawgmoth to take his brother fully after that. The real question was why he'd spent the last few thousand years beforehand trying to do the exact opposite. What had Phyrexia ever done to cause such a burning hatred within him? The same kind he had felt for him, his own brother-

It didn't hit him like a punch, but still left him winded. It made too much sense. But it also didn't make any sense at all. The brother he'd known couldn't have _possibly_ cared for him that much.

.......but the brother he knew would look to place blame on anything other than himself. And the last thing he knew Urza had found out was that he'd been turned into a monster by phyrexia. It would have taken very little to convince the man it had been done against the will of his innocent younger brother, somewhere in the desert after he'd run away. Phyrexia had waged that bloody, terrible war, and Urza had no need to take any blame for it. But by that logic, neither did Mishra, their first apparent victim.

It was too much. Mishra heaved a breath he didn't need to take, grappling with the weight of the idea. All of this, every attack, could have been a misguided attempt by his brother to _avenge him?_ Thousands of years of work and pain, all for someone who'd hated Urza more than anything.

It would explain the grinders, at least. Of course Yawgmoth would punish him for being the reason behind his most powerful adversary waging a continuous, costly war. Not that it mattered. Urza was dead, and Yawgmoth had won.

He didn't have time to mourn properly now either, like he wanted to. If his guess was right, then they'd both been puppeted through their final conversation together, two dolls without strings or wills. And deep down, Urza had cared about him. After all that time.

He reached up and wiped away a clear, wet trail from his face, surprised by the tears (were they tears? was this really water?) and even more surprised by the sniffle that accompanied them. Urza had been _so close_. He could have won. They both could have known peace, _real_ peace. Yawgmoth's victory felt even more bitter now, even harder to swallow. They could have _won_.

A soft sigh rang out through his mind, not his own. The voice that came with it was not the one he'd expected, not the biting sting of the ineffable, but something soft- like the gentle chiming of church bells. _"Come here, my child. All is not lost. There is work for you yet."_

He felt a painful tug, and his vision went dark before he could even begin to scream.

\---

He heard voices, distant but passionate, before he could see again. "Get back!" he heard someone yell, "Get back or die!"

Mishra opened his eyes. He was in a throne room. Or, what was left of one.

Toward the back, it was hard to see, but he was surrounded by compatriots. Phyrexians, he thought, along with others he didn't recognize but knew were fighting on their side. He couldn't see who they were fighting, who gave the order, but the mob seemed ready to lung. Mishra hid himself behind a combination of debris and bodies, and waited. None sought to attack him. They could feel he was one of them. 

Someone soon challenged "You can't kill us all!", and Mishra knew they were right. Felt it in his blood.

He felt the opposite, much stronger, when a familiar voice answered "But _I_ can."

The room erupted into a red mist, the monsters that stood between him and whatever they'd chosen to attack disintegrating in a display he thought only capable using his old engines, his beautiful dragons. God, did he miss them.

He didn't have time to miss them for long before the room settled, and that damned voice spoke again, this time nothing between them and Mishra. "Sweep the room." It said. "Kill them all."

Mishra felt his blood grow cold. He knew that meant him, if he was caught. Instantly, he tried to look for an escape route, somewhere to run to-

But it was too late. Round the corner came a man who's build resembled Mishra's own in a way that had him paralyzed almost immediately. The halberd in his hand was a menacing looking thing, quick to descend upon him, and out of instinct Mishra countered the blow with the strange staff he'd found in the ninth sphere. Urza's staff. They clinked together, power striking against power, neither taking damage. The stranger grew angry, looking to strike again before stopping, eyes wide with recognition, but not for Mishra himself.

The stranger's eyes raked over the robes Mishra had pilfered from his brother's corpse, stunned by it somehow. He spoke, voice seeming a parody of Mishra's own in their likeness. "What the- what is this? Urza?"

Mishra perked at his brother's name, about to snap something back when another voice interrupted him, this one hoarse and disbelieving, but oh so familiar. "....... _Mishra?"_

Blinking with confusion, Mishra looked down to see a severed head cradled in one of the stranger's bloody arms, and Mishra couldn't breathe anymore (had he ever?). It couldn't be real. But the longer he looked, the more real it became. There he was, ash blonde hair crowning a confused face with gemstone eyes, looking both ancient and fragile at the same time.

The stranger was holding the head of Urza Planeswalker, who by some miracle, was _still alive._

Too shocked to speak, the stranger decided to do it for him, a disbelieving look gracing his features. "Mishra? Like _your brother_ Mishra? The dead one? How-"

"I don't know," Urza said with gentle wonder in his tone. Mishra couldn't remember the last time he'd heard his brother make such an admission. "Maybe he can tell us himself. Is that really you, brother?"

The tone was too gentle, the situation too strange. Mishra found himself staring dumbly for a moment too long, an awkward silence filling the bloody halls. Eventually he nodded, forcing himself to speak if only to cut through that awful silence. "Y-yes. It's me. You.....you're _alive?"_

Apparently the softness of his tone had the same affect on Urza, as it took just as long for the man (head?) to answer him back. ".....yes, but only just. Brother, I can't-"

"Wait!" The stranger interrupted rudely, eyes narrowing with suspicion and distaste. The halberd was raised again. "He's a phyrexian, isn't he? This could be a trick. Yawgmoth trying to lure us back in. We can't trust him."

Mishra, always quick to anger and even quicker to speak, bit back almost immediately. "Oh that's _rich_ coming from something like you. You really think I can't tell when someone's been blessed by the ineffable? Don't try to deny it- you're no better than any of the things you kill, now. So maybe I should ask this, what the hell are _you_ doing carrying around my brother's severed head like a trophy, huh? Care to answer that?"

The stranger gaped for a moment, then his muscles seemed to clench as he took in a breath to launch into whatever response he had planned. Urza didn't let him speak, though, interrupting with a tone that demanded obedience. "Gerrard! Mishra! That's enough- both of you. Our first goal needs to be figuring out what's happened here. Mishra, how did you get here? Last I saw, you were-" his voice faltered, "I had, I- what do you remember?"

"I think a better question is where the hell he got those clothes. Yours, if I remember rightly." Gerrard- that was the stranger's name- added testily. "And last I checked, those were left on your body. In _Phyrexia_."

Mishra squinted, answering none of their questions in favor of being difficult. It was something he was very good at. "You're holding a _talking head_ right now, and _that's_ what you want to know? _Really?"_

"Shut up and answer the question!"

"Why don't you come over here and _make me-_ "

"Enough! Both of you!" Urza bellowed with a volume Mishra didn't think he should be capable of, given he didn't have lungs anymore. His gemstone eyes softened, and he gave another order, much gentler this time. "Gerrard, hand me to my brother, if you would."

Mishra counted the incredulous look Gerrard gave to his brother as another small victory, until he huffed and extended the hand holding Urza towards him. Blinking, still trying to figure out if this was even real, Mishra eventually had no choice but to put down the staff and use both hands to grab his brother's face for what had to be the first time since they were children. It felt surreal, like a strange fever dream he'd wake up from to find himself still in their old lodgings with Tocasia, Urza watching over him while he slept through the illness, ever vigilant. Always the protective older brother.

Just as he was thinking about how nice that would be, to go back to that, he felt something gentle probe his mind, not unlike when the ineffable would plant words into his mouth. He stiffened, bracing for the worst, but it never came. Instead, Urza's face twisted with concentration, before finally settling into something that looked like shame. "Oh. Oh _Mishra_. I'm so sorry. I should never have left you there. I should have fled with you, healed you, I could have-."

Mishra interrupted quickly, impulsively saying "That wasn't me. The ineffable spoke for me the whole time."

Urza chuckled sadly at that, and Mishra couldn't understand why the sound hurt to hear. "I know. If I had been anywhere near my right mind, I would have known it wasn't you. You would have cursed my name to your dying breath, not begged me for mercy."

Though it probably wasn't wise, Mishra nodded. "I hated you. I hated you more than anything for what you did to me. If you had taken me from there, I would have tried to kill you without hesitation."

He'd expected the confession to change the look on his brother's face to something like accusation, for it to make him launch into a rant about how he should have been grateful. But that caricature his mind had created seemed to fall apart with each moment he spent here, as instead Urza's voice trembled with apprehension, soft and hesitant. "Is that really where you were, this whole time? Being tortured down there?"

"Yes." He said simply, no pain in his voice. "It's not so bad, once you're used to it. I was surprised that you didn't end up down there, after he got you."

That got a chuckle, but a dry one. "Yes, well- apparently he had other plans for me. I'm sorry, brother. You didn't deserve this."

A shrug. "Sure I did. Not that it really matters anymore. The world is ending, you know."

Gerrard seemed to jump with alarm. "Uh, yeah, so while this is just a lovely little family reunion we're having here, maybe we might like to get back to, I don't know, _saving the world?"_

Urza seemed content to ignore him, blinded by his own regrets. "You were the first thing I ever truly lost. Tawnos, Xantcha, Barrin- everyone I've ever cared about has been taken from me by this stupid war. My academy lies in rubble, my friends buried or sacrificed or betrayed. The ones that still live hate me, rightfully so, and I do not blame them. I have nothing, yet here you are, returned to me in my final hour. I don't have the right to ask for your forgiveness-"

"Well too bad. You're getting it anyway." Mishra replied, voice firm though it wavered with emotion he refused to show. "We started this mess, didn't we? When we took those stones. That gate was one that we opened. It's only right that we're the ones that finish this- together. We just need to figure out how."

"Why? You're phyrexian, aren't you? Don't you want your people to win?" Gerrard jeered, still suspicious of him. Mishra sent him a deadpan look. "They tortured me. For over four _thousand_ years. Why in the world would I want to help them now?"

"Well something brought you here, didn't it? Only thing I can think that would be capable of throwing you here like that is Yawgmoth-"

"Stop saying that name!" Mishra yelled automatically. "Do you _want_ him to hear you? No, it wasn't the ineffable. I know his voice, and whatever it was that spoke in my mind before I got put here wasn't him. It was too.......gentle. I don't know what it was."

The sound of sprinting feet resonated throughout the halls, stopping their argument short of actually accomplishing anything. When Gerrard yelled "Run!", Mishra had no issues with following through, holding tight to Urza's head as they ran from whatever lurked in the darkness, unsure of their standing but certain things were only going to get worse from here. 


End file.
